The Unthinkable
There are often defining moments in a person's life that act as signposts pointing toward the road on which he will travel through life. Todd Bolender experienced such a moment when he was just six years old. Although the visit to the small, out-of-the-way museum hardly seemed like a life-changing event at the time, one of the displays it presented was to leave a lasting impact on his young, impressionable mind.
Todd's father was a humble, hard-working man who, despite never having finished high school, did his best to provide for his family. That meant putting a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs and food on the table. The Bolenders were by no means well-off, but the bills were always paid on time and in full. Thanks to Harvey Bolender's efforts, there were always presents at Christmas and on birthdays; and unless an unforeseen expense cropped up, such as a major car repair or serious family illness, there was even enough money to take the occasional day trip to the Jersey shore, Palisades Park, Freedomland or the Statue of Liberty.
The summer that Todd was six years old, the New Jersey family decided to venture out west one day and visit the Delaware Water Gap and Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains. After a short canoe trip on the Delaware River, Marla Bolender browsed through a free periodical called This Week in the Poconos, a listing of scheduled events and attractions in the area.
"This looks interesting," she said, turning the magazine around so her husband could see the ad.
"'Museum of Oddities,'" Harvey read. "'All things bizarre and strange under one roof.' It must be a damned big roof!"
"Let's go," his wife urged. "It's only one o'clock. We have plenty of time."
Harvey looked at his two boys and asked, "What do you say? Do you want to go see all these strange and bizarre things?"
At six, Todd had no idea what the word bizarre meant, much less have an inkling about what to expect at the museum. What he did know was that it was a family outing, one of the cherished day trips they took in place of more expensive vacations. He was willing to go anywhere in order to extend its length.
Many of the items on display were similar to those that would later appear in Ripley's Believe It or Not! "odditoriums" around the world. In addition to human and animal oddities, there were architectural structures made from matchsticks and micro-miniature artworks able to be seen only through a magnifying glass.
"Wow!" Harvey exclaimed, looking at a scaled down recreation of the Lincoln Memorial made entirely from pennies. "Imagine how long it took to build this."
"I wonder how many pennies they used," Chip, the older son mused. "I bet there's enough money there to buy a new car."
"I would imagine with the number of pennies needed to buy a new car you could build a full-size Lincoln Memorial."
Meanwhile, Todd followed his mother to the next display, one he found much more fascinating than the others he had seen.
"Look at all the stuffed animals!" he cried when he saw an entire wedding party consisting of stuffed cats.
"Those poor little things!" Marla cried.
"They're just toys, Mommy."
"No, they're not. They're real kittens."
"How do they get them to stand so still?"
"Because they're dead," Chip said, catching up with his mother and little brother.
"But their eyes are open, and they're standing up."
Marla headed toward a less-disturbing display, letting her husband explain taxidermy to their son.
"Does that mean the teddy bear I won at Asbury Park last year was once a real bear?" the boy asked.
"No. The bear is made of fabric. You see, there's a difference between stuffed animals and, well, animals that have been stuffed." When his son tried to pressure him for further clarification, he resorted to his oft-used promise, "You'll understand when you get older."
Todd could not wait until the day all the mysteries of the world were suddenly made clear to him.
* * *
In the days before the Internet became an integral part of our lives, many people went to libraries to research subjects that interested them. At the age of ten, Todd, who kept a postcard of the kitten wedding in his dresser drawer beneath his collection of baseball cards and Matchbox cars, went to the library to check out a book for a school book report. While his mother was browsing through the fiction section—she was a big fan of Agatha Christie—he explored books in the nonfiction section of the children's wing.
"Can I help you, young man?" the librarian asked.
"Do you have a book on taxidermy?" he replied.
"That would be over here in the 500 section."
"There you are," his mother said, in a low-volume, library-approved voice. "What's that book you've got?"
"It's one on taxidermy."
"Is that for your book report?"
"No, I just want to read it. Remember those stuffed kittens we saw when we went to the Poconos?"
"I'd like to forget them," Marla said with a shudder. "Those poor little dears! Why anyone would do such a thing .... Why, it's unthinkable!"
"I want to know how they made them. This book will tell me."
Mrs. Bolender did not want to encourage her son's interest in preserving dead animals, but neither did she want to discourage him from learning. The fact that he wanted to check out a book for other than school use was a good indicator of an inquiring mind.
Within a few days, Todd read the book on taxidermy from cover to cover. He even took notes on the steps required and the tools and supplies needed.
Maybe someday, he thought, when I'm older, I can preserve an animal.
While he would never deliberately hurt a living creature, much less hunt or kill it, he knew people's cherished pets had relatively short life spans. His mother cried for a week when the vet put their dog to sleep. In remembrance of the deceased cocker spaniel, she kept a framed photograph of him on the fireplace mantel amidst pictures of the human family members.
If Charlie were stuffed, he would still be with us—kind of.
With that thought in mind, he folded his notes and stuck them beneath the postcard in his drawer.
* * *
When Todd Bolender announced his decision to become a mortician, his parents had very different reactions.
"At least that's one profession that won't face obsolescence any time soon," Harvey joked. "Maybe these damned computers can put other people out of work, but the world will always need undertakers."
"What do you think, Mom?"
"I suppose it's a steady job, but is it something you really want to do? It seems so ... morbid."
"I don't see it that way," her son explained. "I want to help people in their time of grief. And when people see their loved ones for the final time, I want those loved ones to look their best."
"Why do I feel this all started when you saw those dead kittens in the Museum of Oddities? Honestly, I wish we never went to the Poconos that day. We should have gone to High Point instead."
"It's the boy's life, not yours," her husband argued. "Let him be what he wants to be."
Reluctantly, Marla gave her blessing, and Todd went off to college to study mortuary science. After graduating, he worked as an assistant to the owner of a well-established funeral parlor.
"I always thought of our profession as a science," the elderly mortician said after his young assistant spent most of the night preparing the victim of a car accident for public viewing. "But you, my boy, elevate it to an art. When they brought this body in, I was sure a closed casket ceremony would be wise."
"It just takes a little extra time and makeup, and the face is as good as new," his employee humbly replied.
"Don't underestimate your skill. I've been doing this sort of work for more than sixty years, and at no point in my career could I have accomplished what you have."
The Eighties, sometimes referred to as the Decade of Greed, saw financial prosperity across the country. As Todd took over most of the hands-on work at the funeral parlor, with the owner limiting his own involvement to administrative tasks, he commanded a much higher salary. His good fortune improved even further when, in 1984, he married Sheila Merton, the only child of a millionaire restauranteur. Then, in 1986, his employer decided to retire and move to Florida. With financial assistance from his father-in-law, the young mortician purchased the funeral parlor. He and his wife made it a family business: he saw to the undertaking side, while Sheila assumed all other tasks.
It was also at about this time that Todd began dabbling in a hobby that had long fascinated him: taxidermy.
"Don't you see enough dead bodies at work?" his wife asked when she observed him putting tiny glass eyes in the stuffed body of a cardinal that he had found dead in their backyard.
"It's such a beautiful bird with is bright red plumage. It seemed a shame to put it in the ground."
"What are you going to do with it when you're finished?"
"I thought I'd put it in my office. Maybe mount it on a tree branch with some artificial leaves."
Three years later, he found a second dead bird, a blue jay. It, too, was destined to be stuffed and put on display.
"Another one?" Sheila asked when she saw the newest addition to his office décor.
"They make a nice pair, don't they? One on each end of the credenza."
"Like bookends, minus the books in between," his wife laughed.
Then the eight-months-pregnant woman suggested they call it a night and go home.
"Promise me one thing," she laughed as the couple headed toward their car that was parked in back of the funeral parlor.
"What's that?"
"No dead animals in the nursery. If our baby plays with a stuffed animal, it had better be constructed with man-made materials."
"Speaking of the nursery," Todd said, smiling at the prospect of his impending fatherhood, "I ordered that rocking chair you like so much. Now you'll be able to put the baby on your lap and read to him—or her—at night."
"I can't wait!"
"Only one more month."
"A whole month! It seems like it's taking forever!"
* * *
Todd Bolender stared at the obstetrician's face, dumbfounded by the news. He could hear his parents and his in-laws weeping softly in the room, but no tears came to him.
It's just not possible! he thought. No one dies in childbirth these days. Not in developed countries, anyway.
The doctor went on to describe the complications that had occurred during the birth, but the heartbroken widower did not comprehend a single word he said. All that penetrated his brain was the fact that his wife and son were dead.
"I assume you'll want someone else to see to the arrangements," his father said after they left the hospital. "One of your competitors, for instance."
"Why would I want that?"
"Well, surely, you don't want to work on them yourself."
"I most certainly do! I want Sheila and Tommy to receive the best possible ...."
The tears came at last, and it was quite some time before they stopped. When they finally did, Todd set out to work.
"Where are you going?" his mother asked when he took his keys out of his pocket and headed toward the hearse he kept parked in his garage.
"I've got to go to the hospital morgue and pick up the bodies."
"Can't you have someone else do that? You ought to be home at a time like this."
"And do what? Redecorate the nursery? Obviously, I won't be needing it anymore."
"Oh, Todd!" his mother sobbed into her Kleenex.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I've got to handle this the only way I know how, and that's to work. Besides, I owe it to Sheila. Giving her a funeral is the last thing I'll ever be able to do for her."
Neither the parents nor the in-laws made any further attempts to dissuade him from his course of action. Keeping busy, it appeared, was the best thing for him in his time of grief.
When the mortician arrived at the hospital, two orderlies wheeled out the bodies on a gurney. Both his wife and son were placed in a single body bag, the baby lying in his mother's arms. As he unzipped the bag back at the funeral home, images of Raphael's Madonnas came to his mind.
"Even in death you're beautiful," he said, staring down at his wife's face.
Although he originally planned to bury his son in a small white coffin, he decided it would be better to let them rest together. It seemed a shame to separate the two.
If I could only crawl in the grave with them, he thought sadly, we would be a family for all eternity.
However, joining his wife and son in death was a foolish, maudlin desire. Realizing he had no time for such sentiments, he removed the two bodies from the bag and began to work.
* * *
During his years at the funeral parlor, Todd had overheard snippets of conversations of thousands of mourners. Many of these comments were funeral parlor clichés: "He looks like he's sleeping." "At least she's not suffering anymore." "It was so sudden. I just saw him the other day, and he looked healthy as an ox." "She's with Grandpa now." "He had a good life." When friends and family members paid their respects to Sheila, however, there were no trite expressions other than the standard "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Although filled to capacity, the viewing room was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the nondescript organ music piped in through the sound system and the muffled sobs of the mourners. As he sat in the front row of folding chairs, directly opposite the open casket, the widower looked at the dozens of floral arrangements that surrounded it. His contribution had been the spray of pink roses covering the casket with a white ribbon proclaiming BELOVED WIFE in gold lettering. No doubt Sheila would have preferred lilacs, but no florist carried them.
The viewings were held over a three-day period, two hours in the afternoon and three hours in the evening. When the last of the mourners left at nine o'clock on the third day, Todd locked the door behind them and returned to the viewing room. He looked down at his wife and son for possibly the last time. All that remained was the actual funeral the following morning, and the casket would be closed for that graveside service. He raised his arms to shut the coffin lid but could not bring himself to do it. The finality of her death finally hit him.
"I need a drink."
He kept several bottles of alcohol in his office, which he occasionally and sparingly doled out to overwrought customers. Not even bothering to get a glass, he drank directly from the bottle.
"Why?" he screamed, allowing himself the luxury of giving in to self-pity.
As he reached for the bottle again, his eyes fell on the stuffed cardinal on his credenza. It was so lifelike; it looked as though it might spread its wings and fly away at any moment. Then his gaze lifted to the framed postcard on the wall, the one of the kittens' wedding, which he had purchased when he visited the Museum of Oddities when he was just six years old.
Todd could still recall his mother's words when she saw the taxidermist's work: "Those poor little things!" She had whispered a similar sentiment to his father when she saw her grandson lying dead in his mother's arms: "The poor little thing!"
Was it the alcohol, his profound grief or a mixture of the two that drove him to commit—to use his mother's expression—"the unthinkable"? Truth be told, he did not try to analyze his feelings. He simply acted upon them. Leaving the open bottle on his desk, he went to the viewing room and removed first his son and then his wife from the casket and carried them down to his workroom where he put them in the refrigerated storage unit.
The pallbearers will no doubt notice the casket is empty, he thought.
As he wandered through the rooms of his funeral parlor looking for something he could put inside the coffin to give it weight, he went through a mental checklist of items he would need to purchase from the taxidermy supply store. Once he had gathered roughly one hundred and twenty-five pounds of old magazines, empty chemical bottles meant to be recycled and a few metal cremation urns, he put them in the casket and closed the lid.
The following morning friends and relatives met at the Laurel Grove Cemetery to say goodbye to Sheila and Tommy, unaware that the deceased mother and son were still back at the funeral home.
* * *
Combining his skills as a mortician with those of a taxidermist, Todd was able to preserve his wife's and son's bodies, just as he had those of the cardinal and blue jay. Rather than keep them in the funeral parlor where someone might find them, he used the hearse to transport them to his house.
"There!" he declared with satisfaction after posing the embalmed corpses. "That's where you both belong."
Sheila, dressed in her favorite nightgown and bathrobe, was placed in the rocking chair in the nursery with Tommy on her lap.
Having committed the unthinkable once, repeating it a second and third time was much easier. Two years after losing his wife and son, Todd lost his father. Sixteen months later, Marla followed Harvey to the grave—not exactly! Both elderly Bolenders were destined to be stuffed and put in their grandson's nursery. Having successfully preserved the remains of the four people he loved most in the world, Todd ought to have been content with frequently spending his evenings in the nursery, carrying on one-sided conversations with them. However, the urge to do the unthinkable had taken hold of him.
A man needs a hobby, he told himself, in an attempt to justify his actions.
With three adults in the nursery, there was no room for more. Besides, why put non-family members in such an intimate setting? In order to create his own wedding tableau, he would need additional space. Using the money from Sheila's life insurance as a down payment, he purchased an abandoned warehouse in an area where few people traveled.
"I have listings closer to town," the realtor said while showing him the property. "A few right on the highway. This building is off the beaten track."
"That's quite all right. I intend to use it only for storage."
Once the closing was held and Todd received the keys, he began creating a background for his wedding tableau. To transport the furniture and decorations to the site, rather than use the hearse, which always attracted unwanted attention, he purchased a used U-Haul truck. Referring to an online wedding planner guide, he transformed part of the warehouse into a reception venue, complete with artificial flowers and a plaster wedding cake. All he needed was the wedding party.
Since the majority of his "clients" were elderly people, the parents of the bride and groom were easiest to come by. When choosing potential candidates for his tableau, he preferred to pick those among the dearly departed slated for cremation. Not only was it less likely his unthinkable practices would be discovered, but it also eliminated the necessity for weighing down an empty casket.
Wilbur Vrooman, who owned the hardware store, was the perfect choice for father of the bride. Gertrude McNair, the retired librarian, became the mother. Former elementary school principal Adlai Burbeck and widowed Trixie Gunnison, whose only job was that of wife and mother, were cast as the groom's parents. The four remaining people in the tableau were harder to come by since he wanted younger specimens for the maid of honor and best man, not to mention the all-important wedding couple. The groom was a handsome police officer, killed in the line of duty, his bullet hole easily hidden by his tuxedo. Todd's pièce de résistance was the bride, a twenty-four-year-old secretary who died of leukemia. Although she wore the same size as his late wife, he would never have thought to dress her in Sheila's wedding gown. Instead, he purchased a used one on eBay for a fraction of its original price.
As he stood back to admire his completed masterpiece, he recalled the kitten wedding from the Museum of Oddities. His mother's words seemed to echo through the room, "Those poor little things!"
* * *
Over the years, the mortician created additional scenes in his warehouse. With a nonstop supply of corpses at his disposal, he was able to assemble a collection of costume-clad stuffed bodies representing his favorite characters from literature and figures from history. It was while he was in the process of transforming his former insurance agent into Julius Caesar to accompany the pretty airline hostess cast as Cleopatra that trouble first reared its head.
Two viewings were being held that afternoon, one in the small Victorian parlor and the other in the much larger main reception room. Todd sat in his office at his desk searching online for a man's toga.
"Excuse me, Mr. Bolender," his young assistant announced from the doorway, "there's a policeman here to see you."
"He's probably looking for a donation to some charitable drive the police force is sponsoring," the mortician said with a sigh. "Send him in."
A ruggedly handsome young man entered the office, extended his hand and introduced himself as Detective Dex Havemeyer.
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
"We're investigating the death of Thurston Rosenthal. His widow tells us you handled the funeral arrangements about three years ago."
"Rosenthal ... yes, I remember him. He owned a car dealership here in town."
"That's right."
Of course, Todd knew the man. The tall, lanky Mr. Rosenthal was now in the warehouse decked out in a stovepipe hat as Abraham Lincoln.
"I'd like to know if, while preparing the body, you noticed anything ... unusual."
"I don't know what you mean by that."
"At the time of his demise, there was no autopsy performed," Detective Havemeyer explained. "It was assumed since the man had a severe heart problem and had already suffered four heart attacks that he died of natural causes. I was wondering if you saw anything that might indicate otherwise."
"No, not at all. Why? Do you think this might be a case of foul play?"
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say. Thank you for your time, Mr. Bolender."
The detective then reached into his pocket for a business card and handed it to the mortician.
"If you should suddenly recall anything useful about the condition of the corpse, I'd appreciate your giving me a call."
"Certainly."
Unaware that Mrs. Rosenthal's second husband recently died under similar circumstances, Todd did not believe he was in any danger. It was not until three months later that he heard from the caretaker of Laurel Grove Cemetery that an exhumation order for the man's remains had been issued.
What should I do? he wondered, knowing full well what the police would find when they opened the casket.
His options were limited. He could withdraw all the money from his personal and business accounts and leave the country or he could face the consequences of his unthinkable actions. And what exactly did the latter entail? What crime did he commit? Graverobbing? Illegal use of human remains? Were these actual charges that could be brought against him? If so, would they involve prison sentences?
What was certain was that once the police began investigating his activities, they would find his family in the nursery and more than likely discover the contents of his warehouse.
They'll take them all away from me. Even Sheila and Tommy. I'll have no one.
Public shame, the loss of his business and even imprisonment paled in comparison to losing his beloved wife and son—again.
And it will do me no good to run, he reasoned. I can't very well bring them along.
* * *
On the day Thurston Rosenthal's remains were due to be exhumed, Todd nervously paced the floor, dreading the visit from the police he knew was coming. At five minutes to four, he left his office and walked into the Victorian Parlor where a relatively small number of people were paying their respects to a woman who had lost her battle with Alzheimer's.
"She's with your father now," one mourner said to comfort the deceased's middle-aged daughter, who was actually relieved that her mother's suffering was over.
When the mortician quietly entered the room, it was a signal to wrap things up. Viewing hours ended at four. The daughter would go home, rest and have something to eat before returning to the funeral parlor at six. Todd was shutting the door behind the last of the stragglers when he saw the unmarked police car pull into his parking lot.
This is it, he thought, steeling himself for the ordeal ahead.
"Mr. Bolender, may I have a word with you?" Dex asked politely.
"Certainly, Detective," the wary mortician replied. "Come right in."
"I'm here about Thurston Rosenthal again."
"I assumed as much. I understand there was an exhumation."
"And you'll never guess what we found," Havemeyer said, a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"Oh, let's see. Mr. Rosenthal passed away about three years ago .... I'd say you found a corpse in an advanced state of decay."
"That's what we were expecting to find. But no. We found an empty coffin. Well, it wasn't exactly empty. There were various items inside it, but no body."
"I can't believe it!" Todd cried, giving a good performance of a man shocked by unexpected news. "Who could have stolen the remains?"
"We have a pretty good idea who was behind the theft."
"Who?"
Normally, Detective Havemeyer would not share details of an ongoing investigation with anyone outside the department, but he wanted answers from the undertaker. In order to get them, he was willing to engage in a little quid pro quo.
"We suspect not only did Mrs. Rosenthal murder her second husband—which she had the foresight to cremate after he died—but that she also killed her first husband. Hence, the exhumation."
"I assure you there were no wounds on his body."
"Mrs. Rosenthal was diagnosed with an adult form of ADHD and was prescribed a stimulant to treat the symptoms. It's a fairly common and safe medication; however, one of the side effects is to increase the heartrate. In someone who already has a bad heart, the result can be fatal."
"I assume both her husbands had existing heart conditions."
"As well as rather large life insurance policies. Mrs. Rosenthal came into quite a bit of money as sole beneficiary, not to mention inheriting the thriving Subaru dealership from hubby number one."
"So, the black widow hired someone to dig up and dispose of the body so that no tox screen could be performed?"
"That's the consensus down at the station, but I'm not entirely sold on that idea."
"Oh?" Todd asked, his own heartrate beginning to rise.
"If I were paid to dig up a body, I wouldn't risk getting caught by taking the time to rebury the coffin."
"I would. Leaving an empty casket in an open grave would call attention to the crime."
"That's true," Havemeyer agreed, secretly enjoying the game he was playing with the mortician. "But why would the culprit fill the casket with junk?"
Todd could not think of a reasonable answer, so he remained silent.
"No," the detective continued. "I don't think the dearly departed was ever in that grave."
"I assure you when that casket left my funeral parlor, Thurston Rosenthal was inside it."
"I'm sure he was. After all, the pallbearers would know right away if they were carrying an empty coffin. Wouldn't they?"
"It's standard procedure for the mortician to accompany the casket in the hearse during the funeral procession to the gravesite. I would surely have noticed if someone opened it and removed the body."
"And after the funeral?" Dex pressed.
"The casket is lowered into the ground, at which time the mourners usually toss roses onto its lid as they prepare to leave the cemetery."
"Where did you go when this was all over?"
"To the Rosenthal home. As is customary, the widow hosted a post-funeral luncheon."
"At that point, the grave was still open, correct?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, Mr. Bolender," Havemeyer said, rising to his feet. "You've been most helpful."
"Is that it, then?" the mortician asked, desperately trying not to show the relief he felt.
"For now. If I have any more questions, I'll get back to you."
As the detective turned to leave, he spotted the cardinal and blue jay on the credenza.
"Are those real?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You stuff them yourself?"
"I had an interest in taxidermy when I was younger."
"I don't imagine that's an unusual hobby for someone in your profession."
"Good luck with your case, Detective. I hope you catch Mrs. Rosenthal before she marries a third time."
* * *
Over the next six months, Todd kept an eye on the news, eager for information about the alleged crime. When no further developments arose, he assumed the case had gone cold. Although he remained cautious, he resumed his unthinkable activities.
For some time now, he had been in search of a man to be the main character in a tableau of Clement Moore's classic poem, "A Visit from St. Nicholas." When Monte Sturtevant, a rotund bartender with a full white beard, died from complications of diabetes, the mortician saw him as the embodiment of Kris Kringle.
I have to have him!
When Mr. Sturtevant's widow came to him for an estimate, he quoted her a bargain price, even offering to throw in a disposable coffin at no cost if she elected to have her late husband cremated. Naturally, the cash-strapped woman agreed to Bolender's generous terms.
Three weeks after the Sturtevant funeral, Todd put the overweight bartender into the back of his hearse and, under cover of darkness, drove to the warehouse. When he backed the vehicle up to the loading dock, he was momentarily blinded by a set of car headlights.
"What the ...?" he cried, covering his eyes with his arm.
Minutes later, he was startled by a tap on the driver's door window. Todd pressed the button to open it and saw Dex Havemeyer smiling down at him.
"Picking up or dropping off?" the detective laughed.
"Picking up," the mortician answered, thinking quickly. "I use this old warehouse to store my extra stock: chemicals, equipment, cremation urns, caskets, folding chairs and such."
"I thought you might be dropping off, seeing as you have a coffin in back of the vehicle."
"No. I'll be needing that for a service tomorrow. I came to get a box of guest registers. I ran out this evening."
"Let me give you a hand," Dex offered as he opened the car door for the mortician.
"That won't be necessary. It's not heavy."
"It'll give me the chance to talk to you."
"If you have any more questions for me, Detective, I'd appreciate ...."
"I'm not a detective anymore. The police department and I have parted company. You see, we had a slight disagreement over Mrs. Rosenthal. I believe she killed her husbands, but my superiors refuse to arrest her, insisting there was insufficient evidence."
"Well, if you have no further questions for me then, I'll ask you to excuse me. I have work to do. Work that doesn't require your assistance."
"You know what really irks me about this case?" Havemeyer asked, showing no sign of leaving.
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"Assuming Thurston Rosenthal was taken from the open grave in the cemetery after the conclusion of his memorial service, how did a telephone book with your name and address printed on its cover get inside the casket?"
"Who keeps telephone books these days?" Todd laughed. "I toss them in the trash as soon as I receive them."
"You're suggesting the graverobber took the trash from your funeral parlor and put it in the coffin in place of the body? I don't buy it."
The mortician finally stepped out of the hearse. He then walked to the back of the vehicle and opened the rear door. Meanwhile, the detective continued voicing his suspicions.
"I think the coffin was weighed down at your funeral home before it was even loaded into your hearse. That means you were the only ...."
The former detective was never able to accuse the undertaker of having been the culprit. Even hearses occasionally get flat tires, necessitating the drivers carry a spare, a jack and a tire iron. The mortician used that lug wrench to forever prevent Dex Havemeyer from entering the warehouse and learning his secrets.
* * *
Todd Bolender unlocked the warehouse and pressed the switch beside the door to turn on the overhead lights. Once inside, he headed directly to the tableau featuring Julius Caesar and Cleopatra.
"It took a while to get this," he announced, speaking to the third figure, standing on Cleopatra's right. "But I finally found one on eBay."
He opened the cardboard box and removed a Roman soldier's helmet from the packing material. It was a tight fit, but eventually the galea was in place. Having successfully used the bronze helmet to cover the indentation where Havemeyer's skull had been caved in by a tire iron, Todd stood back to admire his handiwork.
"There!" he exclaimed proudly. "Just as I thought. You make the perfect Mark Antony!"
Although there is no Museum of Oddities in the Poconos, there was a Museum of Curiosities in Bramber, Sussex, England. It was built to house taxidermist Walter Potter's anthropomorphic dioramas, which featured stuffed animals mimicking human beings. One such diorama was the Kittens' Wedding (the bride and groom are shown in photo in upper left corner of page).
I once cast a taxidermy spell creating a Star Wars tableau featuring Salem as Darth Vader. Unfortunately, he wouldn't stay dead!
